


dear erin

by subjectiveobjection



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M, Letters, M/M, Multi, just camp tingz, pre-punnihawk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 14:43:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19320265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjectiveobjection/pseuds/subjectiveobjection
Summary: bj writes a letter home to his daughter.





	dear erin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justalittlegreen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/gifts).



“You know, I wish I could talk to her,” BJ says, sitting cross-legged on his cot. “I mean, I put in the whole ‘tell Erin I love her’ thing in my letters to Peg, but it’s not the same as actually _talking_ to her.”

Hawkeye plucks the martini glass from BJ’s hand and tosses it down, getting a scowl in return. Hawkeye’s seen this spiral before. First it’s “I wish I could talk to my kid” and then it devolves into “I’m a terrible father,” always stopping somewhere at “the goddamn war can kiss my ass” on the way. “I’m gonna go AWOL and see my family” is added in if BJ’s drunk. Managing a drunk man who misses his kid(s) is hard- he’d had to do it for Trapper, and now for BJ. He’s _willing_ to do it, but maybe just not after ten straight hours of surgery. So might as well head that phase off. “Why don’t you write a letter to her, then?” he suggests.

“She’s a toddler! She can’t read!” BJ says.

“Have Peg read it to her! It’ll be a fun mother-daughter bonding activity!” Hawkeye replies. “Y’know, I still read the letters my mother wrote to me whenever we were separated, like if I was at my cousin’s house for a few weeks or something. They’re nice memories.”

BJ looks up at Hawkeye, his eyebrows raised. They both know how little Hawkeye brings up his mother. Hawkeye feels a little guilty, seeing as it’s pretty much the hydrogen bomb of comparisons, but it gets BJ out of his funk. “You think I should?”

“Why not? You’ll at least stave off the boredom for a few hours,” Hawkeye says.

“Huh. All right.” BJ pulls out a pad of paper. “Y’know, that’s not a half-bad idea.”

“Why do you sound surprised? I get one of those every few weeks,” Hawkeye replies with a grin. He puts down his glass. “Well, I gotta go to post-op. Good luck on the letter.” He walks out, running a gentle hand through BJ’s hair as he leaves.

The autumn wind whips through the camp, like it has for the past month, ruffling Hawkeye as he walks. _Wish I’d taken Mom’s letters to Korea with me._

…

BJ leans back onto one elbow and sticks the end of his pen into his mouth. **Dear Erin.** That’s all he has. Goddamn, why can’t he think of anything to say?

Charles enters the tent, the wind following him and rustling everything in the tent. “Close the _door,_ Charles,” BJ huffs.

“It closes on its own, Hunnicutt. Unlike your mouth, which seems to have _my_ pen propping it open.”

BJ crosses his eyes and looks down. So it _is_ Charles’s pen. “Forgive me, Your Honor, I didn’t know that you used pens that don’t write in solid gold.” He chucks the steel-barrelled pen at Charles’s back, and it clatters to the floor.

“Hunnicutt, if I wanted my personal belongings to be damaged, I’d give them to Radar to look after,” Charles snipes as he picks it up. “I expect you to at least _ask.”_

“ _Sorry,_ Charles. It was on this side of the tent.” BJ sticks his arm under his cot and comes up with a chewed-up ballpoint pen. It’ll have to do.

**Dear Erin,**

**I’ve asked Mommy to read this letter to you, because I don’t know when I’ll be able to come home and talk to you myself. Your Uncle Hawkeye said that I should write this, and that even if you can’t really understand it now, you’ll be able to read it later.**

**Right now, I’m in my tent. I live with your Uncle Hawkeye and another guy, called Charles. He would probably say that you should call him Dr. Winchester, but I don’t think he’d mind if you called him Charles. Or even Chuck.**

At that moment, Charles decides to put on the most insufferable record he owns.  The one, tiny, solitary flame of kindness that BJ was feeling towards him disappears. “Charles, seriously, _what_ do you like about that stuff?” BJ asks.

“I don’t know, what do _you_ like about your… _Californian_ music?” Charles says, saying “Californian” like it’s a slur.

“Well, for one, the drums aren’t loud enough to make me deaf. Do you mind at least lowering it a bit? I’m trying to write a letter.”

Charles huffs, but he lowers it anyway.

**Charles listens to a lot of really loud music, but if you’re not Uncle Hawkeye, he’ll lower it a little if you ask him nicely. I think that Charles plays it loud when Uncle Hawkeye is in the tent because he wants to drown out Uncle Hawkeye’s jokes. He can be loud, too, but he’s very funny. When you get to meet him, you’ll love him. Did you know that once, he spent fifteen hours wearing a princess gown because someone bet him that he couldn’t? When I get home, I’ll show you the pictures.**

BJ smiles as he remembers it. Hawkeye does not have anywhere _near_ a small measure of pride. So when Charles had remarked, “Pierce could no sooner wear that dress well than my grandmother could escape her coffin” at the poker game, Hawkeye had snatched the dress right out of Klinger’s hands and declared his intent.

_“Oh, you don’t think I could wear this?” Hawkeye said, holding the dress up to the light. It had been made of a shimmery silver fabric, the skirt draping delicately down from a natural waistline, with two embroidered straps holding up the whole thing._

_“_ I _think you could wear it, sir,” Klinger said. “It was too long on me, so it’d probably work for you.”_

_“Well, no offense meant, Pierce,” Charles said. “You just don’t seem the type to be able to wear dresses.”_

_“No way! Captain, you’ve got legs for days!” Klinger remarked._

_“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Hawkeye deadpanned. “You know what? I’m going to wear this dress for the rest of the poker game, and you all can just bask in my glory.”_

_They’d all laughed, but Hawkeye pulled off his shirt and shimmied out of his pants- always such nice sights to see- and put on the dress. “Looks good on ya, Hawk,” BJ remarked._

_Hawkeye twirled. “See? BJ thinks it looks good on me.”_

_Charles huffed. BJ knew he had his suspicions about the two of them- they were roommates, after all, and Charles wasn’t as dumb as Frank. Thankfully, he voiced none of them. “Well, Pierce, I have to admit, it looks better than I thought it would. Not exactly worthy of the Miss America pageant, but…”_

_“I_ told _you so!” Klinger exclaimed._

_“Well, you look good in it, but can you wear it for twelve hours?” Margaret asked. “Because I know that sort of embroidery, and it starts getting uncomfortable real fast.”_

_“My dresses are impeccably crafted, Major!” Klinger exclaims haughtily._

_“Yeah, but you change out of your embroidered ones pretty quickly, Klinger.”_

_“Y’know what? I’ll wear this thing for twelve hours, and I’ll look_ great _in it,” Hawkeye interjected. “I’ll be more radiant than a bride. Or a pregnant person. I always forget which one it is.”_

_BJ snorted, and he held up the deck. “Okay, now that we’ve got that cleared up…”_

_“We haven’t! Is it a bride or a pregnant person?”_

_“It’s-”_

_“Wounded! Come and get ‘em!” the PA system announced._

_“Nah, wounded usually don’t look that radiant to me,” Hawkeye said, already getting up and sprinting for the chopper pad, chairs scraping and cards (and cash) abandoned._

_Fifteen straight hours of surgery is enough to make any clothing uncomfortable, but Hawkeye was handling it with remarkable grace, at least in BJ’s opinion. As they stripped out of their scrubs- or in Hawkeye’s case, just the scrub shirt- Klinger asked, “So what did you think of it, O Mighty Captain?”_

_“And don’t BS, Pierce,” Margaret added._

_Hawkeye sighed and frowned down at the bloodstains all down the dress, even on the bodice, where the blood had soaked through the shirt. “Well, you all can suck it, because I wore it for fifteen hours. But I would never do it again. Seriously, Klinger, how can you stand all this lace scratching you?”_

_“What, are you kidding? His hair probably does all the work of a slip!” BJ exclaimed._

_“Huh! I never thought of that!” Klinger said. “Maybe there’s some money to be made off that idea!”_

BJ smiles and adds on, **He didn’t look half bad in the dress.** His smile slides off his face as he realizes that Charles has been slowly inching up the volume for the past five minutes. “Charles!” BJ yells.

“Well, if you don’t like it, then _go somewhere else,”_ Charles snaps.

“I was here first!” BJ says, immediately regretting it.

“I didn’t realize your grade school intellect extended to your insults,” Charles replies, all too gleeful about the free ammo.

“Ah, screw you, Chuck,” BJ says. He gathers up his pen and pad and makes his way over to the mess tent, where Margaret and Father Mulcahy are both bundled up to the nines, enjoying a cup of coffee. Well, “enjoying” is a strong word.

“BJ! Come join us,” Mulcahy exclaims.

“I’m afraid I won’t be great company,” he says, filling up a coffee cup. “I want to get this finished so I can send it out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, who’re you writing to?” Margaret asks as he sits down. “Well, since you’re not Charles, you’re obviously not writing to a kindergartener for ideas about what constitutes a good prank.”

Father Mulcahy raises his eyebrows. Obviously, he hasn’t caught wind of the Houlihan vs. Winchester prank war. “You’re close,” BJ tells her. “I’m writing my daughter. Bit too young to be a kindergartener, though. What’d Charles do this time?”

Margaret looks around furtively, and slowly, she removes her hat. BJ bursts out laughing at the sight of her hair. Her bright purple, practically neon hair. “Oh, goodness!” Mulcahy exclaims, trying to stifle some giggles of his own.

Margaret jams the hat back on her head haphazardly. “Oh, shut up!”

“What’d- what’d he do, switch- switch out your shampoo?” BJ asks through giggles. “How did you not- not notice that your hair was bright purple?”

Margaret blushes from her cap to her collar. “Scully was here.”

“What does that- _oh.”_ Father Mulcahy’s cheeks turn as red as Margaret’s, and BJ doubles over laughing.

“Shut _up,_ Hunnicutt! If I wanted to hear a hyena cackling, I would’ve told Pierce!” Margaret yells.

“Told Pierce what?” Hawkeye asks, strolling into the mess tent. At this point, BJ thinks that he’s actually going to cry tears of mirth. “Is this a giant conspiracy to keep my discharge from me?” BJ watches as Hawk’s eyes lock on a curl of purple hair near Margaret’s ear. _I guess he isn’t named Hawkeye for nothing._ “Margaret! You changed your hair! Or I guess Charles did it for you, but either way it looks _fantastic!”_

“I don’t need the whole _camp_ knowing,” she snaps icily.

“How did you dye your hair purple- ohhh,” Hawkeye says. “Scully was here, wasn’t he?” He waggles his eyebrows at her, and as BJ almost falls off the bench laughing, he starts to think that she might actually get a rifle and shoot Hawkeye.

“Please, gentlemen, I _am_ a priest,” Mulcahy interjects, face still a bright red.

“I thought you were a father,” Hawk quips. “C’mon, Margaret, let’s see the whole thing!”

Margaret yanks her hat off, and Hawk bursts into laughter too, collapsing onto the bench and dropping his head onto BJ’s shoulder. “You’ve seen _enough,”_ Margaret snaps as she jams the hat back on.

BJ’s giggles subside, and eventually Hawkeye’s whoops do too. “Ah. Thanks for that, Margaret,” Hawkeye says. “Or I guess I should thank Charles. How’s the letter going, Beej?”

BJ looks back down at the pad. “Well, now my daughter will know that you have purple hair, Margaret, isn’t that exciting?”

“I sometimes wonder why I consider you people to be my friends,” Margaret says.

“Margaret, I considered us _bosom_ friends!” Hawkeye says. “Father, didn’t you?”

“Well, I _am_ a little hurt by her statement,” Mulcahy says, his joking tone buried under a layer of puppy-dog sentiment.

“Oh, shut up. Not you, Father,” Margaret says.

The banter fades into comforting background noise as BJ picks up the pen again. **Did you know that my friend Margaret has purple hair now? Charles gave her some special shampoo. He and Margaret have been exchanging all sorts of special surprises over the past week or so.** BJ grins. To think that this had started with Charles and Margaret actually _teaming up._

_“Twenty-four hours in OR without so much as a bite of food,” BJ said, pulling off his scrub cap. “That’s gotta be some kind of record.”_

_“Yeah, record slowness,” Hawk said bitterly. “God. One unfamiliar chest and I’m suddenly an intern again. Except this time the people in charge thought I was up to snuff.”_

_BJ kept moving, putting scrubs into the laundry basket and tidying up the room with a practiced steadiness, trying not to startle Hawkeye the same way he’d try not to startle a street cat. He kind of wanted to laugh at the comparison. “Hawk, you’re a fantastic surgeon. You did- look at me, Hawk- you did_ everything _you could.”_

_Hawk’s glare was so angry and full of bitterness that for a second BJ thought he was going to get up and punch a wall. BJ didn’t back down, staring right back at him, until his shoulders sagged and he let out a ragged breath. “Feels like I coulda done more.”_

_“There were three surgeons working on him at the end. Nobody could’ve done anything more. Even Winchester was shaken up, and you know he’d rather die than break his composure.”_

_Hawk snorted, and a tiny bit of the weight lifted off BJ’s chest. “Yeah, you’re right. If he ever got kidnapped, he’d probably pull a Caesar on ‘em, get pissed if they didn’t demand enough ransom.”_

_BJ chuckled and pulled on an overcoat. “You wanna go to the supply room?”_

_Hawkeye’s head jerked up. “Beej, I don’t really feel-”_

_“Not- just… let’s spend some time together.”_

_Hawk relaxed and pulled on a coat, too. “Well, I must insist on a chaperone.”_

_“I can check in the supply room and see if we have any of those,” BJ replied. Hawk let out a huff of laughter and slung his arm around BJ’s shoulder._

_BJ pushed open the door to the supply hut, and instead of feeling a reprieve from the wind, a torrent of cold, wet water poured down onto him. A gurgled “What the_ shit _” came from beside him- obviously, Hawkeye hadn’t been spared. BJ started to shiver almost immediately, the wind cutting him to the quick, and instead of doing the logical thing and entering the hut, he stayed frozen in place. “What the everloving_ shit _?!” Hawk repeated- this time, yelling._

 _Hurried footsteps approached, and BJ turned around slowly to see Margaret and Charles approaching, both wide-eyed. “What are you_ doing?!” _Margaret asked. “You two were supposed to be on inventory duty_ tomorrow, _not_ now, _after fifteen hours of surgery!”_

_“Yes, didn’t you see the sock on the- oh,” Charles said, turning to look at the sock sitting on the ground twenty feet away._

_BJ’s frozen brain slowly started to put the pieces together. Obviously, the two of them had wanted to ward off potential prank-ruiners._ Guess they didn’t count on the wind, _he thought sluggishly. “N-nice prank,” he chattered._

_“Oh-h-h, who- who was the m-m-astermind behind this one?” Hawkeye remarked._

_“Get inside, both of you!” Margaret fussed. “You’ll freeze to death out here!”_

That would be sensible, _BJ thought. He took a step inside, tripping on something just as Charles said, “No, no, no-” and something_ else _splashed down on him- something purple and sticky. He spluttered, trying to keep the paint out of his eyes and nose and mouth, and turned back around to face Margaret and Charles- both looking extremely apologetic._

 _“I_ just wanted some goddamn sleep,” _Hawkeye said, also covered in paint. He spat out a glob of purple, aiming so it landed directly on Charles’s shoes. He coughed, coughed again, and then started to laugh._

 _Despite himself, BJ started to laugh, too. Margaret and Charles plastered on bemused smiles as he and Hawkeye cackled, clinging onto each other. BJ didn’t know what exactly was so funny- here he was, freezing, exhausted, and covered in purple paint- but_ something _was. “Who- who decided to set this all up more than forty-eight hours in advance?” BJ asked._

 _“That was Charles’s idea,” Margaret said. “I said, “we can just set it all up tonight!” But_ no, _you just_ have _to be Mr. Prepared!”_

 _“My practical jokes work_ because _I am so prepared, Maaah-gret,” Charles said. “Yours, like the jokes of two cretins here, are slapdash at best.”_

_BJ’s laughs started to subside, and he grinned at Hawkeye. “I dunno, Charles,” BJ said. “When Margaret sets out to get anyone, she’s pretty good.”_

_“Hunnicutt, coming from you, that is more of an insult than anything.” Charles turned to glare at Margaret. “The failure of this jape is on account of you, not me.”_

_“Well, I never!” Margaret exclaimed. “You know- ugh! Why am I even wasting my time talking to you?” She stalked away, and BJ and Hawkeye started to cackle again._

_“What, may I ask, is so funny?” Charles snapped._

_“Margaret got the last word,” Hawkeye said._

_Charles’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I’ll show her. She will_ rue _the day she ever crossed the path of Charles Emerson Winchester the Third!”_

BJ grins. Margaret had dyed all of Charles’s clothes purple, and in return, he’d stolen all the toilet paper out of the latrine before she’d gone in, after the mess tent had served the “baked beans.” So she’d stolen every scrap of underwear he’d had and left new, very uncomfortable-looking panties as payback, and BJ supposes that the purple hair is Charles’s revenge. “Y’know, Margaret, the best revenge is letting go and living well,” BJ tells her.

“Stuff it, Hunnicutt,” Margaret snaps. Mulcahy’s eyebrows raise (even though there’s a tiny grin on his face).

“He means flaunt the purple, Margaret,” Hawkeye says. “Stick it to Winchester. It’ll drive him _crazy.”_

“I’ll be the laughingstock of the camp!”

“Or you’ll be the person with the bold new hairstyle,” Mulcahy adds. “I mean, _I_ think it looks lovely.”

Margaret contemplates it. “You know what? I’ll try it.” She pulls off her cap and shakes out her hair. It actually looks pretty good, in BJ’s opinion.

“Ah, shit,” Hawkeye says. “Gotta get back to post-op. But really, Margaret,” he says, winding up for one of his rare moments of sincerity, “the hair looks great.”

In those rare moments where Hawkeye’s eyes go all soft and his grin becomes just a little hesitant, BJ loves Hawkeye even more than usual (if that’s even possible). “I’ll go with you,” BJ says, stuffing his pen and pad into his pocket.

“All right, my good sir, if you’ll just step this way,” Hawkeye says, gesturing grandly to the mess tent’s exit.

“Thank you, humble servant,” BJ replies, slinging his arm around Hawkeye’s shoulder as they walk out. The wind attacks him as soon as he steps out, but Hawkeye’s warmth beats back the worst of the chill. “Anyone worth keeping a good eye on?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t keep a _bad_ eye on them,” Hawkeye says. “No, they’re all recovering nicely. No thanks to us.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty great, aren’t we?” BJ says, dropping his head onto Hawk’s shoulder.

“I’ll show you just how great I am once I get off this shift,” Hawkeye replies. BJ grins, anticipation blooming in his stomach. He scans the camp before pressing a quick kiss to Hawkeye’s lips, feeling Hawkeye smile in return.

“Go be a good doctor,” BJ says, putting a few inches of space between them as they enter the post-op ward. “I’ll just finish my letter.”

He drops into a chair and pulls out his letter again. **I’m now in the post-op building, which is where we send patients after we fix them up so they can rest. It’s kind of like when you get sick and Mommy makes you stay in bed all day so your body can fix itself. Uncle Hawkeye sometimes comes through here in funny outfits to make the patients laugh. Once, him and I had a patient who was really sad, so we tried to cheer him up.**

_“Jacobsen hasn’t said a word since he came in here,” Hawkeye said, pacing the floor of the Swamp. “He won’t even write anything. And Sidney can’t get down here for another two weeks, and I don’t know what to do, Beej.”_

_“Have you tried sitting down? You’re making me dizzy,” BJ said. He couldn’t think of any way to get the soldier to say something. The kid had a tricky operation done on him. BJ and Hawk needed to know if he was in pain._

_Hawk stopped abruptly and flopped down onto BJ’s cot, upsetting the abandoned chess game a few feet away. “I have to go on the post-op shift in five. I think I’ll scream if he doesn’t say anything, just to mix it up a little. You know, he might not even be eighteen, Beej.”_

_“I’ll come with you, see if I can’t get him to say anything.” BJ stood up and pulled Hawkeye with him._

_They set out to post-op, walking quickly to fight off the oncoming night chill. Hawk shook his head. “Well, one thing’s for sure, I’m not sending him back to his unit until we get Sidney to talk to him.”_

_“Hawkeye, I need you to take a look at this,” Kellye called as they entered the building._

_“Yep!” Hawk replied. “I feel like a three-legged jockey running a horse race!”_

_BJ snorted at the absurdity of the joke, and suddenly he realized that he wasn’t the only one laughing. He looked down at Jacobsen, who was chuckling. BJ raised his eyebrows and smiled back at the kid, who averted his eyes but didn’t stop laughing. “You like horses?” BJ asked quietly. “Or is the image of Hawkeye with an extra limb in a horse race just that insane?”_

_Jacobsen’s laugh faded, but he looked up at BJ’s face. “I… like horses,” he rasped. BJ handed him the cup of water on his bedside, and Jacobsen drank it all in a few seconds. BJ looked over at Hawkeye, who was conversing with Kellye in low tones, a huge grin on his face. He walked through the doors towards Potter’s office, and BJ furrowed his eyebrows for a second before realizing what Hawkeye was up to. He fought to keep a grin off his face as he looked back down at Jacobsen._

_“Yeah, so does our CO. His office is_ filled _with photos of horses he’s owned,” BJ said. He rambled about Potter and horses and Potter’s horse, and the kid interjected occasionally but otherwise just listened with a smile on his face._

_And then the doors burst open, and Sophie stuck her head into post-op, Potter holding her reins and Hawkeye on the horse’s other side. Private Jacobsen’s eyes lit up. “Heard you like horses, son,” Potter said. Jacobsen grinned and nodded._

_“Well, you can’t go riding her now, but if you get all wrapped up, we can wheel you over and you can spend some time with her,” Hawkeye said._

_Jacobsen grinned again. “Thank you.” His voice was still raspy, but the faraway look in his eyes that had concerned them all for the past three days had receded._

BJ hopes Jacobsen is doing well back in his unit. He should write him- just after he finishes his letter to Erin. **The patient really liked horses, so Colonel Potter let him pet Sophie. Sophie is Colonel Potter’s horse. I’ll send you a picture of her. She’s such a nice horse! When I come home, we can go horse riding. Doesn’t that sound fun?**

**I hope you’re having fun and being a good girl for Mommy. Make sure you enjoy the warm weather for me, Erin. We’ve been having some nasty wind here, and I can’t wait to get back to the sunshine. Please give Mommy a hug for me. I love you both!**

**-Your loving dad**

BJ tears the letter off the pad and folds it neatly before putting it safely into his pocket. He smiles a little, imagining what Peg and Erin must be up to back in Mill Valley. “Beej!” Hawkeye calls, breaking through BJ’s thoughts. BJ looks down the beds at a grinning Hawkeye. “Come here, this guy’s from the San Francisco area too!”

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading!! @justalittlegreen (happy belated bday!) gave the amazing prompt: a letter-home story, in the style of Dear Dad, Dear Sis, Dear Sigmund, etc. kudos and comments are always appreciated :)))


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